


Trophies

by DraconicSeraphim



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anti-Muggle Content, Concussions, Gang Rape, Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 00:22:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9265583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraconicSeraphim/pseuds/DraconicSeraphim
Summary: Kink-Meme Fill: Newt and Jacob are traveling when they're captured by poachers. Jacob is forced to watch as one by one they take turns forcing themselves on Newt, who just keeps trying to reassure Jacob that he'll be fine.In which Jacob is heavily concussed and Newt copes the only way he knows how... looking after everyone else





	

The trouble with spending so much of his time inside the suitcase caring for his animals was that, quite simply, Newt didn’t always realize when he was in a precarious situation. Jacob had figured that out weeks ago when they’d gone to leave the case one evening only to find hyenas dancing around the “camp site” as Newt called it (which was really nothing of the sort, so far as Jacob was concerned). The foolish beasts seemed to think they were going to run off a pride of lions and the lionesses and hyenas were inches away from scrapping over a zebra not 2 feet from them. Still Newt was bound and determined to leave as little impact as possible on the surroundings which meant a couple wards to ensure the case remained undamaged but otherwise they would just set down in the brush somewhere and disappear inside when darkness fell. Or sometimes much later, despite Jacob’s protests. 

They’d actually “made camp” early tonight after nearly two weeks of tracking a small herd of erumpents through the African savannahs. Jacob was grateful for the respite, no longer used to this kind of consistent work. It was a labor of love, though. Best for the beasts and truly fascinating to watch Newt out in the wilds, the way he interacted with and mimicked animals that would have made most people piss themselves. Which was precisely why they’d stopped early. Newt seemed to have found evidence of a manticore in the area and was beside himself with excitement.

Jacob wasn’t entirely sure what a manticore was but Newt had muttered something about a scorpion and a lion and that was enough for him to know he didn’t want to meet one. The opportunity to possibly observe one in the wild was enough to leave Newt pondering their next course of action. To continue following the erumpent herd… or to deviate and follow the manticore?

Once the animals had been fed and Jacob had managed to pin Newt down long enough to force at least a little food into him too the redhead started back up the ladder, determined to learn all he could about the age of the tracks they’d found before deciding what was the most viable option. He’d offered to let Jacob stay in the small hut they called home but he didn’t like the idea of Newt out there all alone at twilight. Logically he knew it was rather silly, Newt was far less defenseless than he was himself, but the idea that Newt would let himself be injured before resorting to any sort of aggressive action against an animal refused to leave him alone.

As it turned out, animals (magical or otherwise) were the last thing he needed to be worried about.

Newt was above him on the ladder, which was a bit more traditionally ladder shaped now that it wasn’t only Newt traversing the damn thing, mumbling excitedly half to himself and half to Jacob. Manticore’s were usually found much further north, in the rocky coastal lands bordering the Mediterranean. Newt stepped out of the case and Jacob was only a few seconds behind him. Newt trailed off, clearly distracted by the tracks they’d settled the case beside. Half a moment later Jacob realized that it was not tracks that Newt was studying but their surroundings.

Jacob was still half in the case, and a good thing too because he had no idea how Newt had managed to clamber down without falling flat on his face. The case was resting atop one of half a dozen crates stored inside a canvas tent. The tent was large, huge actually. Much larger than anything Jacob had ever seen and then it occurred to him that it must be magic all over again. “Uh… Newt? Give a guy a hand?” Newt had started to step away from the case, curious and suspicious in equal turns. He paused blinking back at Jacob before flashing the no-maj a weak smile. 

“Ah- yes, of course. So sorry.” 

He was helping Jacob out of the case and onto solid ground when voices were heard just outside the tent’s flap. “Should not be long now. Let the rich bastards get them a prize and we can return home.” A man was saying, his voice gruff and thick with an accent Jacob couldn’t quite pinpoint. It was something similar enough to the native guide they’d used to make it this far out into the brush that Jacob thought he must’ve been, long ago, from the wild continent. Jacob made to duck behind the crate Newt’s case was balanced on, knowing the moment it was locked again they’d be unable to open it. Newt’s gaze, however, had drifted to the open crate beside his case, green eyes flashing bright and hot with anger. He was moving towards the tent’s flap before Jacob even registered the large jars glowing softly with a thick gold-orange fluid that roiled and bubbled against the enchanted glass.

The erumpents, of course.

“Newt!” Jacob hissed after him in a half whisper. Not that it mattered. There was a sharp crack that sent Newt stumbling. Jacob spun, fists raised, trying not to think about the way Newt looked, falling bonelessly to the ground. He managed to get one solid blow in, sending the dark-skinned man’s head snapping back. It wasn’t the first time Jacob had been clocked with the butt end of a rifle, nor was it the first time he’d been knocked unconscious by it. It was, however, the first time he’d felt invisible ropes binding him before the pain carved black lines through his vision.

Light, blinding and hot seared through him, making his eyes tear up and he clenched his eyes closed against the assault. Somewhere he knew it wasn’t, couldn’t be, that bright. It was late, they were in the middle of the wilds, magic or no it was not bright enough for the level of pain he felt. His stomach rolled, trying to rebel and when he tried to open his mouth to spit the taste of bile out sand and dry, dead grass clung to his lips. It took another few moments of careful breathing, careful not to draw dirt up into his nostrils or, god forbid, into his mouth, carefully trying to control the rise of their dinner into his throat. 

Then he finally managed to blink his eyes open, hating the way his face felt sticky with spit and dirt but counting the fact that he hadn’t vomited as a small triumph. Any satisfaction that had given him deflated when he finally managed to focus on the scene around him. 

“-minister’s pet?” A man’s voice, accent more stereotypically British than Newt’s, sounding arrogant by the very formation of the words. Jacob couldn’t see who’d spoken, his vision blocked by the legs of those standing in front of him. It was a merciful shield from the lights but at the same time it left nothing but sounds filtering through to his mind and he could feel his heart sinking with each moment.

“Nothing more than a charity case...”

There was a creaking, steady and rhythmic, wood grinding against the nails holding it together. The soft rustle of fabric dragging against the ground, or maybe against that same straining wooden surface. A thick rasp of skin on skin with just the slightest squelch of something slick and wet softening the heavy thud that kept in time with each protesting groan from the wood. Under all of it was heavy, grunting breaths and the faintest sound of hitched, strained breathing, pained but far beyond making active complaints about it. 

Oh god have mercy, no.

He swallowed around the bile rising in his throat again, trying to push up onto his knees despite the protest of his head. “Newt?” Jacob’s voice was hoarse, throat tight, saliva thick on his tongue and he had to swallow convulsively a few times, squeezing his eyes closed against the implication of those sounds. Still it was another moment, as he finally made it upright, arms bound behind his back, ankles bound together before anyone seemed to notice he was awake.

“Just in time, dear boy!” A voice, far too gleeful, called and suddenly Jacob was moving, pitching forward but rising into the air as well, dropped unceremoniously at the feet of the man who had spoken. Sharply dressed, probably in his early 50s, one foot propped up on Newt’s case as though it were some wild beast he’d felled for a trophy shot. He certainly looked as though he were ready for a photo opp with the long rifle resting over his lap, the fur of some exotic beast Jacob didn’t recognize draped over his chair, wand leveled at Jacob. “It’d be a shame for you to miss the main event.” 

Jacob nearly vomited on his shoes, pristine despite the rough conditions of the camp. Then the man leaned down, grasping Jacob’s chin and turning him to face the display before them and Jacob wished he had.

Newt, sweet, caring, selfless Newt was bound over one of those large crates, long limbs stretched out and anchored to the far edges of the crate, looking paler than usual and Jacob didn’t know if it was injury or just the contrast of the deep, rich brown of the man above him. Russet curls clung to his forehead with a combination of blood from a nasty gash that was still seeping steadily down his face, smearing across his cheek and something thicker and more viscous that had Jacob wrenching his head away from the older wizard’s cruel grip. He bent forward, gagged and spat onto the dirt, his own ragged breathing not enough to drown out the awful sound of what was happening in front of him.

“‘S alright, Jacob.” 

The words were a little slurred, probably the head wound, and his voice hoarse, Jacob didn’t dare think about why. But he let his eyes flick back up to where Newt was laid out, green eyes focused hard on Jacob, even as pain made his expression tighten and the dark hand on his side shifted up to grip his shoulder. 

“Oh, how sweet. He doesn’t want to worry his pet muggle.” The man seated above Jacob drawled, wand twirling lazily as he drew his other foot up, resting his calves over the top of the case, ankles crossed. His other hand found Jacob’s hair, holding his head up so he had to look ahead at the man ravaging his friend’s body. “You’re a traitor to your kind, Scamander.” The easy, joyous tone dropped to something low and dangerous, the lackadaisical twirl of his wand became a practiced flick, a murmur under his breath and Newt’s head snapped back as though he’d been struck. Newt jerked, his lower lip splitting open under the force of that phantom blow, cheek reddened and splotchy with burst blood vessels. 

The man above him grunted and stilled and Newt allowed himself a grimace when he finally drew back. Jacob determinedly kept his eyes on Newt’s face, not wanting to see what he already knew would be there, slick and scarlet between his legs. They’d had their fun, surely they didn’t intend to keep them here for long. It wasn’t safe to set camp for more than a night, maybe two. They’d go into the brush and Jacob could help Newt heal up and then they’d come back with that swooping evil of his (or maybe even the nundu) and wreck all of these men but mostly the cruel man orchestrating all of this. 

“Robert, I believe you were next?” 

Again with the gleeful tone that made Jacob sick and his eyes flashed up towards the man holding his hair, teeth bared in a snarl that there was no real threat behind. “Tha’s enough, ya sick bastard.” Even as he spoke a burly man with a thick beard and scars striping over massive arms was stepping forward toward Newt.

Black danced across his vision, everything tilted dangerously, and there was a sharp stinging flare of pain from his temple all the way back along the side of his head. The arm of the chair, he noted dazedly, hot and swimming and suddenly the struggle he’d been having since he came to was finally lost. He retched, too dizzy to know which way was forward and which way was closer to the wizard’s glossy shoes. Jacob could feel it, hot and sticky where it splattered on his knees but he still couldn’t focus well enough to see it. 

“Jacob.”

The dark spots swirled through his vision, eating away at different parts of what he could see and his stomach rolled again. 

“Jacob.”

He closed his eyes, slumping in the man’s grip, willing away the ache and nausea. 

“Jacob!”

It took all of his willpower to swim up through the darkness and force his eyes open. He couldn’t tell who’d been saying his name at first. 

“That’s it, Jacob. Look at me.” Dark eyes drifted to the sound and when he finally managed to focus he immediately turned away, vomiting again until he was dry heaving and still the world spun faster, tilting harder. “Please, Jacob.” He groaned and it nearly became a sob. He didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to see. It hurt, hurt his head almost as much as it hurt his heart but he could deny Newt nothing. This time he took a steadying breath, gagged on the stench of his own vomit, and forced his head up, cringing at the way his head swam and he knew he was listing sideways.

Newt was still bound, still bleeding from both his temple and his lip, still grimacing at the grip of hands on his hips. Despite it all though, his eyes were fixated on Jacob now, fierce and determined and clear. “Jacob.” Firm, commanding, the tone he used when he would take no argument from bickering bowtruckles or angry nundu. How he could use that tone, make that kind of insistence, with some hamfisted knee breaker pawing at his backside was beyond Jacob but he obeyed the demand in that voice. He forced himself to focus his gaze on Newt’s face. It hurt, made his head ache and throb, his stomach tried to revolt again but there was nothing left.

Somewhere he was vaguely aware that the nausea was a bad sign. Newt kept up that eye contact though and Jacob distantly wondered why he did it so rarely, he really did have lovely eyes. It was hard to say how much time passed. Everything seemed smudged at the edges like he was watching everything underwater, except for Newt’s eyes, fierce and bright. Pain flickered through his gaze and Jacob was only dimly aware of another man replacing the last, this one clearly trying to cause pain. 

There was a sharp bark of laughter from his left and Jacob had almost forgot about the other wizard, sitting there so calmly as his underlings forced themselves on his friend. Jacob growled again and his world tilted to the right abruptly. He hit the dirt hard, sand dusting up around him and making him choke. There was nothing in his belly but he gagged again and again, spitting onto the sun baked earth and watching the drunken patterns of darkness that swirled over his vision.

“Jacob.” Newt… Newt needed him. Needed his help, needed him conscious. 

“Jacob!” Briefly he thought he saw green eyes on his once more.

Then all he knew was darkness.


End file.
